Female Empowerment – Bitch Flicks

Suturing Selfhood: ‘American Mary’ and the Unconventional Feminine Repossession of Self

This violence through language establishes a paradigm that persists throughout the film in which female expression, female control over their anatomy/body and others’ is aggressively and oppressively impugned upon and violated by male domination. Mary’s passion and talent — and thus selfhood — exists imperiled and impeached by the overtures of men.

Written by Eva Phillips, this article is part of our theme week on Women in Horror.

[Trigger warning: discussion of rape]

Suturing, as an act, sanguinely carves its way throughout Jen and Sylvia Soska’s 2012 body-modification-centric horror film American Mary. Before we ever see a face or hear a word of dialogue, we watch sinewy, achromatic flesh being sliced open, spread apart, and methodically stitched with black thread by blacked gloved fingers. We watch this, stunned by the juxtaposition between the very focused, dotingly nimble work of the gloved fingers and the grotesquely wrinkled and malleable flesh. We watch this also jarred by the ethereally doleful rendition of “Ave Maria” — importantly and perspicaciously, a hymn that beseeches a female savior to ward off earthly demons and evils — that sonically sutures into the slicing and massaging of the flesh. Before we ever see a face or hear a word, we are informed that this suturing is an act of salvation, not something to be reduced to a simple barbarism. As it is portrayed in the first few moments of the film, suturing is a complex extension of the two selves involved in the act.

These first scenes of suturing — which, as we are shown in an almost whimsical reveal, involve dead turkey flesh rather than human flesh — introduce us to the proclivities of the film’s protagonist, Mary (an unequivocally cool as hell Katharine Isabelle), a profoundly bright and profoundly broke medical student in her final stages of schooling before becoming a surgeon. Before understanding Mary as an individual, we are introduced to the presences in Mary’s life which vex and threaten her in strikingly insidious ways. Specifically, her sniveling, vitriolically brooding professor, Dr. Grant (David Lovgren), is presented moments after we watch Mary carefully and gleefully “operate” on her turkey patient as a direct contrast to the joy she derives from her chosen field. During a slideshow presentation in class, in which Mary’s phone is bombarded with messages and calls from debt collectors for defaulting on her loans, Dr. Grant lashes out at Mary in the middle of class, barking that having her phone out is “fucking rude” and later admonishing her to “stop fucking up.” This violence through language establishes a paradigm that persists throughout the film in which female expression, female control over their anatomy/body and others’ is aggressively and oppressively impugned upon and violated by male domination. Mary’s passion and talent — and thus selfhood — exists imperiled and impeached by the overtures of men.

To juxtapose this, the Soska Sisters brilliantly introduce, through their own masterful process of directorial and narrative suturing, the world of underground body modification and Mary’s unexpectedly intimate and empowering relationship with it. Body modification, which has longstanding cultural values and implications, has emerged as a prominent subculture in which individuals seek to perfect and alter their form to their vision using techniques such as implants, scarification, surgical reconfiguration of particular body parts, and more. The culture is known for a wide array of widely sought after artists — like this guy — and informs many films and television shows, particularly those examining transcendentalism in scientific-modification communities — think Orphan Black — and the multidimensionality of the culture has permeated the filmic consciousness in significant ways.

In American Mary, Mary is thrust into the belly of the beast rather unceremoniously and under non-consensual pretexts: in her interview at a beyond-grimy strip club to secure a job to make more fast cash, Mary is implored by her potential future employer to stitch together an identity-less man who has been brutalized and ripped stem-to-stern by the club’s bouncer. Mary sutures the man’s wound in exchange for five thousand dollars cash, violently vomiting afterword, and in turn imbricates herself into a world which will challenge her to re-conceptualize her notions of autonomy and self-governed craft.

What is significant about Mary’s consequential immersion into the world of body modification is that it is engaged by (very) willing, consenting participants who are firstly and predominantly women. As pertinacious as they are distinct in their appearance, the women who help to “launch” Mary’s body-mod specific surgical career — Beatress (Tristan Risk) and Ruby Realgirl (Paula Lindberg), who seek to surgically modify their appearances to resemble Betty Boop and a human doll — value body mod and surgical transformation as a distinct form of sovereign self-possession that reclaims bodies otherwise controlled or possessed by external forces. Grandiosely, Ruby summarizes the allure and the empowerment of body mod, stating “I don’t think it’s really fair that God gets to choose what we look like on the outside, do you?”

This sort of direct control over one’s physical features, particularly when enacted by women/for women, this craven need for specific suturing that allows Mary to not only hone her craft, but define herself through her knack for flawlessly changing skin and bodies. She articulates her selfhood with each stitch while simultaneously allowing those she operates on to attain their purest selves. It is certainly no coincidence that during Mary’s operation on Ruby, the rendition of “Ave Maria” we hear in the opening scene is woven in to the scene just as effortlessly as Mary’s surgical tools carve and reshape Ruby’s flesh. Both women are symbiotically asserting selfhood through an act often thought to barbarously or carnally be “just for men.”

Themes of feminine self-expression and self-possession take on another dimension in turns of representation when the disturbing element of bodily violation (through rape) is jarringly introduced into the film’s narrative. Mary, who has purchased a new car and clothes with the exorbitant gobs of under-the-operating-room-table money she makes through body mod, attends a party hosted by the repulsively skeevy Dr. Grant, where she is a lone female presence surrounded by lecherous men in her desired field. Already coded as a predator, we are not shocked but nevertheless paralyzingly appalled as Dr. Grant drugs and rapes Mary, all while filming the violent transgression. It would almost seem this act, and the Soska’s directorial choice to unflinchingly present the violation in its entirety (often from Mary’s “perspective”) betrays the trenchant themes of female self-possession and autonomous expression established in the film, and falls into the triggering and tiresome trend of rape and sexual assault in other films. However, keeping with the Soska’s own sentiments conveyed in their 2014 interview with Bitch Flicks, the inclusion of the graphic assault scene is reflective of the prevalence of violence against women — sexual, physical, emotional, and so on — that is often ignored, disputed, or monetized. The violence that is acted upon Mary is not a plot device nor a gratuitous exploitation of the female body — and the ensuing violence she enacts as either retribution or psychological processing is not portrayed as erotic or glamorous. Rather, it is seen as coping — tasteless, merciless, and often directionless coping to contend with an act that defied explanation. What is critical, though, is that Mary never loses nor surrenders her mastery over suturing and the identity she consecrates through that (though, she does relinquish from the male-dominated “legitimate” surgeons’ realm). Even down to her final moments, she is in control of her craft and identity.

I found myself oddly calling upon a seemingly unrelated text during my viewings of American Mary. With each scene, moments from English novelist Frances Burney’s agonizing epistolary non-fiction piece, “Letter to Esther Burney,” began to suture themselves, as it were, to the action of the film. Burney’s groundbreaking and painfully vivid description of her diagnosis with cancer, the complete deprivation of her voice and autonomy over her own body at the hands of countless male physicians both before and during the mastectomy, and gruesome accounts of the gore and pain of the surgery, are eerily connected to the work done in American Mary.

While both the film and text depict outlandish trauma acted on bodies — whether it be Mary’s rape or Burney’s invasive cancer and equally invasive and debasing procedure to remove it — both reinstate women’s voices and female autonomies in unconventional means. Burney is able to champion her suffering by authorially disseminating her trauma in text, and thus re-transcribes herself into the surgical act which initially strips her of her selfhood. Mary, an author in her own right through her magisterial surgical prowess that defies the parameters of her patriarchal field, literally carves out her own voice and her own sense of control (for better and for worse) through modifying the bodies of others (which in turn allows those individuals to inhabit empowered identities) and altering the man who violated her. Both women confront their trauma, the desecration their bodies endure, by refusing to relinquish the crafts which define them and allow them to reclaim their bodies.

The ethics in American Mary are often dubious at best, but as in Burney’s letter the empowerment of the text — as is often the case with what little room women are allowed to articulate themselves in — lies in ferocious audacity sutured in each line or each layer of flesh.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

American Mary: In Praise of the Amoral Final Girl

Talking with Horror’s Twisted Twins: An Interview with the Soska Sisters

Eva Phillips is a relatively recent import to Pittsburgh, PA. She relocated from the crust of Virginia after receiving her BA in English at the University of Virginia to complete her Masters at Carnegie Mellon University. Her interests include: representations of femininity and violence in film, refusing to quell her excitement over The Fast and the Furious franchise; having every cat; queer representations in horror and melodrama (both film and television); queer sexuality and religion; and finally getting to meet Sia and maybe wear her wig. In addition to Bitch Flicks, she writes for the good folks at Indie Film Minute, and has appeared in Another Gaze Journal. Her various disintegrations can be viewed at https://www.instagram.com/menzingers2/.

The Threat of Feminine Power in ‘The Witch’

Recognizing the witch hunts dotted throughout the U.S.’s early history as a feminist issue, Robert Eggers smartly constructs his film to be a power struggle between the two main female characters, each representing a different conception of femininity. … By rejecting motherhood, the witches reject their feminine role in the patriarchal Puritan society.

This guest post is written by Josh Bradley. | Spoilers ahead.

Judging it against other modern horror films, a lot is surprising about Robert Eggers’ outstanding debut, The Witch. It’s not a slow build like so many others in the genre, as one of the very first scenes shows us a witch and is as horrifying as anything I’ve ever seen in the first 10 minutes of a movie. It manages to be deeply unsettling and creepy without resorting to jump scares, a staple in the genre sometimes leaned too heavily upon. And it fully commits to its ending without going the ambiguous route that many have come to expect from this type of story.

The ending that the film ultimately commits to also illuminates another surprise: the eponymous witch alluded by the title may not be the hooded figure from the first 10 minutes or the bewitching woman in the woods who curses Caleb (Harvey Scrimshaw) in the second act. It could just as easily refer to the protagonist, Thomasin (Anya Taylor-Joy).

Sure, Thomasin’s climactic decision indicates this may be the case, but so does Katherine’s suspicion and treatment of her daughter. And that’s the biggest surprise: the film presents a family-vs-witch situation as the main dramatic conflict, but the fates of the characters show that – from a narrative standpoint – Thomasin is the definitive protagonist, and the antagonist is actually her mother, Katherine (Kate Dickie). Considering some of the heinous things done by the witches in the movie – and the fact that Satan himself is a literal character – revealing Katherine to be the ultimate antagonist is quite the statement.

Recognizing the witch hunts dotted throughout the U.S.’s early history as a feminist issue, Eggers smartly constructs his film to be a power struggle between the two main female characters, each representing a different conception of femininity. Katherine, a middle-aged woman and mother, believes her power comes from her ability to give life, from her ability to have children. This fits nicely into the patriarchal Puritan society of the time, as women were relegated to be mothers and caregivers. The disappearance of her infant and the untimely death of her son compromise her caregiving abilities, leaving her powerless without her children (visualized by the nightmare image of her breastfeeding a crow, laughing maniacally as it gores her breast).

Unlike Katherine, the witches – who live outside the patriarchal Puritan society – at least partially draw their power from their sexuality, giving them (potentially) even more power than men. It’s no accident that Caleb’s demise stems from his male (hetero)sexual curiosity, as a witch takes the form of a young, attractive woman to lure him in and curse him. It’s also no accident that Caleb takes particular note of Thomasin’s developing chest (unbeknownst to her), around the same time Katherine announces to her husband, William (Ralph Ineson), that Thomasin needs to be sent away to work for another family now that she “begot the sign of her womanhood.” Now that Thomasin is a woman – with youth, beauty, vitality, sexuality, and fertility – she’s a threat to Katherine’s power.

In her final scene, Katherine, who is quick to blame all of the family’s hardships on Thomasin and her blossoming womanhood, attempts to strangle her scared and crying daughter to death. After Thomasin cuts her, Katherine bleeds all over Thomasin’s face, as if trying to insist that she (Katherine) still has the womanly power too (blood being “the sign of her womanhood”). But she doesn’t.

Directly contrasting Katherine, the witches in this world reject motherhood in the most drastic way imaginable, as evidenced by young Samuel’s fate. Eggers has mentioned in interviews that the macabre scene involving the infant was inspired by legends of witches using the entrails of an unbaptized babe as a “flying ointment,” hinted at by a blurry image of the witch floating in front of the moon directly after rubbing the… “ointment”… all over herself. Following the above metaphor, the witches are literally stealing Katherine’s source of power (her children) to further their own.

By rejecting motherhood, the witches reject their feminine role in the patriarchal Puritan society (although they still seem to follow a male leader). And that is what makes the witches so scary to the family in the film (and to the Puritans in general); they refuse to use their feminine power in the service of the patriarchal family, which threatens the patriarchal family. Add this to William’s inability to either protect or provide for his family – i.e., the man’s traditional source of power – and Thomasin’s feminine power becomes even scarier to them.

In a symbolic final act of desperation, William locks Thomasin away with her young siblings, as if attempting to force her to be with children (perhaps as indirect punishment for her failed moment of motherhood, where her infant brother was stolen from under her nose). Instead, the witches – and Satan – rescue her from this prison of mandated maternity. Ultimately, Thomasin decides that she has no use for the societal structure (or pious religion) that her family tried to confine her in, and she leaves it behind in order to embrace – and fully realize – her feminine power. As a witch.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

‘The Witch’ and Legitimizing Feminine Fear
‘The Witch’ and Female Adolescence in Film

Josh Bradley is a literal rocket scientist who spends most of his free time with his YouTube channel, watching the Criterion Collection, or staring at a blank Final Draft document. You can follow him on Twitter @callme_Yosh.

‘Colossal’ and ‘Lady Macbeth’ Tell Similar Stories of Violence and Empowerment at TIFF

Both Nacho Vigalondo’s monster movie, ‘Colossal,’ and William Oldroyd’s period piece, ‘Lady Macbeth,’ are solid, carefully-made films built around a stunning performance from their lead actors – Anne Hathaway and Florence Pugh, respectively – and both tell the story of a woman surrounded by men who try to control her. Rightly or wrongly, both films also seem to presume that the best way for women to be strong and empowered is through physical violence.

Written by Katherine Murray.

Last week, the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) saw the world premieres of Nacho Vigalondo’s monster movie, Colossal, and William Oldroyd’s period piece, Lady Macbeth. Both of these are solid, carefully-made films built around a stunning performance from their lead actors – Anne Hathaway and Florence Pugh, respectively – and both tell the story of a woman surrounded by men who try to control her. Rightly or wrongly, both films also seem to presume that the best way for women to be strong and empowered is through physical violence.

In Colossal, Gloria (Anne Hathaway) struggles with problematic drinking, got fired from her job, and kicked out of her boyfriend’s apartment. She moves back to her home town to get her life together, but soon discovers that she’s psychically linked to a monster that appears in South Korea every morning to blindly stumble into skyscrapers, leaving a trail of chaos and destruction in its wake. This sounds like a completely bizarre and preposterous premise, but it works really well in the film. At first, it seems that Gloria will have to pull back on her drinking and behave in a more responsible way to deal with the monster, but it slowly becomes clear that there’s another antagonist in this story. At the risk of revealing one of the best twists in the film, it turns out that Gloria’s nice guy childhood friend, who initially seems destined to be her romantic interest, is actually a Nice Guy childhood friend – in that he secretly hates and fears women, and only pretends to be friends with them because he’s angling for sex. The second half of the film is about him getting increasingly vile and misogynist while she struggles to stand up to him.

At the screening I attended, Vigalondo explained that he’d been editing the film right up until the premiere and joked that all he could see were the mistakes he made. However, the mistakes don’t really show. There’s a little bit of fuzzy logic about the monster, and its origin story is built up to be more than it is but, overall, the film seems technically well-made and takes us on an understandable and unexpected emotional journey. The degree to which you enjoy this movie will be mediated by your Matrix quotient – meaning, if you were annoyed that Neo and Trinity killed a bunch of innocent people so they could look cool in The Matrix, you will be annoyed that Anne Hathaway’s monster kills a bunch of innocent people by drunkenly stumbling into a skyscraper. Colossal makes more of these deaths than The Matrix did, but not as much as it makes of the pain Gloria suffers herself.

That said, I was surprised by how much I enjoyed Colossal and, even though I’m about to question the film’s use of violence as a path to power, this is a movie that deserves to land a distributor, so as many people can watch it as possible. There are interesting conversations to be had about the film, once it’s part of the cultural landscape.

Lady Macbeth is complicated, in that it’s an adaptation of an opera that was an adaptation of a Russian novel called Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District, which does not, itself, have anything to do with Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Set in England, in the 1860s, the film follows Katherine (Florence Pugh), a woman who marries into a modestly wealthy family that hates her. The first act of the film depicts Katherine’s life as an endurance test – physical discomfort, humiliation, isolation, boredom, sleep deprivation, celibacy – that will apparently go on forever. By the time the murders start – and there are lots of murders in this film – we’re on her side.

This is Oldroyd’s first feature film (written by Alice Birch), after working mostly in theatre and, although everything looks gorgeous, there’s an overall broadness to the movie that would work better on-stage. All of the physical violence in the film is blocked and shot in ways that reveal it as pantomime; every line of dialogue and sound effect is crisp and loud as though there’s a chance we might not hear it.

Katherine intentionally goes from being sympathetic to villainous over the course of the film, and there are unanswered questions about some events – including what looks like a possible gang rape. The best explanation for the story came from Naomi Ackie, the actor who plays Katherine’s servant, Anna. During a Q&A, Ackie explained that to her, Lady Macbeth is about the choices people have when they’re oppressed, and how intersectionality leaves each of the characters with different options. The option Katherine chooses is to kill anyone who threatens her freedom and – without giving away too much – Gloria eventually resorts to violence in Colossal, too.

On the one hand, it feels great to watch these women fight back against men who threaten violence or have used physical violence to make them subservient – I got really emotional watching Colossal, and appreciated the care Vigalondo took developing the situation and exploring the misogynist undercurrents in what initially appears to be harmless behavior. There’s also a great moment in Lady Macbeth where Katherine stares at her father-in-law impassively during an outburst, and you can tell it’s because she’s already planned his death – it’s a much-welcome change after watching her bow to his wishes earlier in the film. On the other hand, watching these women meet violence with violence reinforces the idea that the best or only way to have power is to beat or kill someone else, which is an idea that’s bad for women (and many men) in the long run.

Men’s domination of women has historically hinged on physical strength and threats or deeds of violence. Although both Colossal and Lady Macbeth seem to propose that the best way for women to end their oppression is also through violence, the biggest gains women have made collectively in society didn’t happen because we started to beat men up – they followed from cultural change that placed more value on freedom, democracy, and equality. Some may argue that it’s important for women to learn to physically defend themselves, but the best way for us to ensure that women are treated like people rather than property is through dismantling intersecting systems of oppression and claiming an equal share of political, economic, and social power. Until we have that, women’s rights are an experiment that men can end at any time.

As committed to empowering women as both of these movies are – and I don’t doubt their commitment – the road to power on-screen looks a lot different than the road to power we’ve taken and probably should continue to take in life.

Katherine Murray is a Toronto-based writer who yells about movies, TV, and video games on her blog.

‘Jem and the Holograms’: Diversity and Female Empowerment

What I didn’t remember, and was pleasantly surprised by, was all of the diversity present in the show and the incredibly positive female role models that it presented to its young viewers. … It offered a positive statement on cultural acceptance and feminine strength at a time when children’s programming was lacking in both areas (and often still is today).

This guest post written by Horrorella appears as part of our theme week on Ladies of the 1980s.

Jem and the Holograms was a pivotal part of my childhood. I watched it religiously. I couldn’t get enough of Jem and her rock star cohorts. The music, the characters, the stories – I ate it up like the candy-colored mountain of awesome that it was. I had a chance to revisit the series as an adult when I received the complete series box set as a birthday gift (note – it is SO gloriously pink). I poured some Cap’n Crunch cereal and sat down to revisit this show that had brought me so much joy in true Saturday Morning Cartoon fashion.

Reconnecting with this series was an incredibly fun experience, albeit a surprising one. I remembered Jem and her friends getting into scrapes, playing concerts, and trying to outwit the Misfits’ dastardly plans. I remembered the foster girls that found a home and a family at Starlight House and who were overseen by the band members. I remembered the conflict that Jem/Jerrica dealt with in keeping her true identity a secret from the world, and the resulting friction that created with her boyfriend Rio. I even remembered some of the songs.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lkQE5wuBFeY”]

What I didn’t remember, and was pleasantly surprised by, was all of the diversity present in the show and the incredibly positive female role models that it presented to its young viewers. Though often criticized as being little more than a vehicle to promote the Hasbro line of dolls that had inspired the series, the show was actually so much more. It offered a positive statement on cultural acceptance and feminine strength at a time when children’s programming was lacking in both areas (and often still is today).

The Holograms celebrated an ethnically and culturally diverse group of characters who came from a variety of different backgrounds. Though Jerrica and Kimber were biological sisters, band members Aja (an Asian woman) and Shana (a Black woman) were adopted by the Benton family as children. Later, as the band expanded, a Latina drummer called Raya was added to the mix. This theme went on to include the foster girls populating Starlight House. Ba Nee, for example, a little girl involved in several major plot threads throughout the series, had been born to a Vietnamese woman and an American soldier before immigrating to the United States. The series took the time to showcase these cultural and ethnic differences, highlighting different traditions and backgrounds while also bringing the characters together as a united family.

Series creator Christy Marx stated in an interview with Off Hollywood that ethnic diversity was important to her when developing the characters. She wanted to be sure that all girls watching the show had someone to identify with, and made that a core goal as she began to develop the expanded cast. This was definitely a rarity among 1980s animated programming, and is something that made Jem and the Holograms stand out among its contemporaries.

Juxtaposed with our heroes, we have The Misfits – the nemesis band of the Holograms who are constantly trying to derail any project our heroes might be working on in order to stay on top. They are comprised fully of white women, and the leader, Pizzazz, comes from a particularly privileged background. Raised in an affluent lifestyle, spoiled, constantly angry, and dedicated to nothing more than getting her way by any means necessary, Pizzazz is the embodiment of entitlement. She will do anything within her power to stay on top.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7r6-Ie0un84″]

In many ways, The Misfits represent the privileged status quo. They came to stardom before the Holograms, and are determined not to give up their spot on top. They refuse to make way or share that space with anyone else. They demand a level of treatment they feel is in keeping with their status as rockstars, and care little for anyone besides themselves (Stormer is often the exception to this rule, as she proves early on to have a heart, yet is easily bullied and influenced by her bandmates). The Misfits are simply another example of the people in power remaining in power, while everyone else has to struggle to get by.

Conversely, the Holograms can be seen to embody a more ideal future; something to strive for. Inclusive, and aiming not for fame and fortune, but for acceptance, integrity, and the greater good. Their songs have meaning and a positive message, often focusing on teamwork, fair play and the like. They lead by example, and offer a blueprint for what we could be, rather than what we often are.

The feminism and the female empowerment in the series is also incredibly meaningful and noteworthy. Jerrica/Jem is an icon, both within the story and for the show’s legions of young fans. Not for her fame or for being the rockstar with the cool clothes and the pink hair (though, admittedly, the pink hair was pretty rad), but for being a successful, confident and capable woman. She was a different kind of role model for a little girl growing up in the 1980s. We tend to focus on the fashion and the music present in the show, but more importantly, Jem gave us a powerful and successful female character to look up to. In her, we found a character who was in charge of her own destiny. An intelligent, savvy business woman who maintained not only a record company, but a nonprofit that housed, cared for, and provided a supportive home for foster children. In Jerrica, we see a balance of a woman who is able to achieve professional, financial, and artistic success, while also contributing positively and meaningfully to the world around her.

Marx says:

“The thing I like about Jem and Jerrica is that she’s kick ass in how she cares about this entire household full of foster girls, or she’s kick ass because she has this musical career, or she’s a music executive. She’s someone who is strong and independent and directs her own life.”

Marx also notes that though the series, its fashion, and its technology are all very 80s, the stories still speak to us even today. They have a timelessness to them that allows them to carry on. And as much as last year’s film revival was a raging disaster, the silver lining is that the values and power of the property have found a new embodiment reaching a new generation in the form of the IDW’s comic series. The books take the characters, stories, and concepts that made the original series so important and meaningful and bring them forward into the modern era, with continued racial diversity, varied body types, and sexual orientations; a swath of powerful, well-developed female characters and new adventures.

Jem and the Holograms impacted its fan base in a way that few series of the time (or since) were able to. Through building a cast and a series of stories that reflected the people watching it, it connected with its audience in an entirely new way. It provided the viewers with a positive female role model who was strong and powerful in ways not typically seen on television, and certainly not in children’s programming. Jem and the Holograms influenced a generation, and the lessons we learned from that show and its stories were taken with us into adulthood. Hopefully, its new incarnation will continue to do the same for new legions of fans.

See also at Bitch Flicks: Was ‘Jem and the Holograms’ a Good Show for Little Girls?

Horrorella has written about film for Ain’t it Cool News, the Women in Horror Annual and on her blog at horrorella.com. She geeks out incessantly over movies, television, comics and kitties. You can gab with her on Twitter @horrorellablog.

“You Have No Power Over Me”: Female Agency and Empowerment in ‘Labyrinth’

So what distinguishes ‘Labyrinth’ from the Hero’s Journey tropes it so closely follows? Its protagonist. Sarah is the hero of the story. She doesn’t need to be saved because she’s the rescuer, and she carries the plot forward with her resourcefulness, tenacity, and self-actualization. …She navigates a tricky tightrope between fantasy and reality, dreams and goals, past and future, and discovers the kind of woman she wants to be.

This guest post written by Kelcie Mattson appears as part of our theme week on Ladies of the 1980s. | Spoilers ahead.

Adolescence is tough, no matter who you are. Your emotions, perspectives, and body are changing, and the prospect of entering the complex, confusing world of adulthood can seem frightening. It’s especially hard for teenage girls. Life is capable of hideous cruelty: society has pre-set expectations it demands women meet, and there will always be those who attempt to control and oppress female agency. But there’s also freedom — the freedom to choose your own path, to explore, to express, and to discover who you are and the power within you.

Those are the major themes behind Jim Henson’s 1986 film Labyrinth. Although it wasn’t popular at the time of its theatrical release, over the past thirty years it’s become a deeply loved cult favorite for its coming-of-age themes, vivacious imagination, and David Bowie’s amazingly outrageous clothes. (Oh, dear David.) But beneath the puffy ball gowns and sparkly technicolor makeup lies a palpably feminist treatise.

On the surface Sarah Williams (Jennifer Connelly)’s story is about her maturation into an adult, but bound inherently to that is the development, and realization, of her personal agency. When we first meet her she’s a clever, imaginative girl who prefers the company of books, stuffed animals, and made-up fantasy lands over the mundane demands of suburban life. To this end Sarah is also an embodiment of the stereotypical characteristics unfairly assigned to teenage girls — immature, petulant, and selfish. She throws a temper tantrum when tasked with babysitting her younger brother Toby so her parents can, gasp, enjoy an evening out by themselves. Why should she be forced to look after a crying baby when she’d much rather dress up in a flowing white gown and play pretend? Sarah’s defense mechanism against her growing responsibilities is to cast herself into a skewed fantasy where she’s an innocent victim terrorized by evil parents.

It’s immature, yes, but so very relatable. Sarah feels isolated, confused, and jealous of her brother, and fueling the core of those frustrations is the desperate desire to do what she wants. “Life isn’t fair,” she cries when things don’t go her way, as I’ll bet most of us have. She’s a normal adolescent girl yearning for the independence to make her own choices. And that first choice happens to be asking the trickster Goblin King from her play to take Toby away.

Enter David Bowie’s Jareth in a shower of glitter, who offers Sarah a decision of his own design. If she solves the mysteries of his labyrinth within a thirteen-hour window, he’ll return Toby to her. If not, Jareth keeps custody of the baby in his goblin kingdom. It’s Sarah’s choice whether or not to rescue her helpless brother.

This is where Labyrinth dovetails nicely into several synonymous identities. It’s a fairy tale homage with modern-day values; it matches beat-for-beat the plot structure of the typical Hero’s Journey; and it’s a tale of internal strength that’s unabashedly, specifically feminine in nature.

As a fairy tale, admittedly it’s nothing too new. It follows in the footsteps of its predecessors (The Brothers Grimm, The Neverending Story, Where the Wild Things Are, The Wizard of Oz) by imparting life lessons through symbolism — the magical alternate reality is a safe place where our conflicted protagonist can decipher the fundamental difficulties of growing up. As a Hero’s Journey it’s nothing revolutionary, either: the “character embarks on a quest, encounters personal trials to stimulate his/her growth, hits their lowest point before rising up stronger” template has become such a commonplace backbone for popular media you can find it almost anywhere you look. Even Sarah reconciling herself to the obligations of adulthood is a commonly explored arc, from 1977’s Star Wars to 2014’s Boyhood.

So what distinguishes Labyrinth from the Hero’s Journey tropes it so closely follows? Its protagonist. Sarah is the hero of the story. She doesn’t need to be saved because she’s the rescuer, and she carries the plot forward with her resourcefulness, tenacity, and self-actualization.

At first glance it’s easy to write her off as a passive character seemingly helpless to Jareth’s erratic whims and elaborate traps. But although Sarah reacts to the obstacles Jareth throws into her path, she actively resists his narrative, twisting the conflicts around to suit her needs until Jareth becomes the one reacting to her. When he tries to disempower her by casting her in the role of a lost princess needing his protection from a horde of masked strangers, Sarah rejects his fantasy by literally breaking it with her fists. She’s not tempted by the pretty trinkets he offers nor quelled into submission by his magnetism; she’s steadfastly resolute in her goal. Of course she gains quirky Muppet allies along the way, but as she tells her newfound friends, “I have to face him alone. It’s the way it’s done.” And, and — she doesn’t win through brute physical strength, but through an emotional, mental acknowledgment of her own power.

Before the labyrinth, the idea of personal power was all fantasy. A book to read, lines to recite. Sarah has to endure practical life experiences, albeit in a fantastical setting, to recognize the full extent of her capability and then apply that knowledge in order to survive in a treacherous, unpredictable world. A man’s world.

“You have no power over me,” she declares to Jareth’s face; thematically, to outside forces at large. Once she claims ownership of herself, she triumphs in her dual goals: rescuing Toby, and finding happiness. A girl declaring what she wants without shame brings down an empire.

When you look closely, even the movie itself emerges from the decision Sarah makes to sacrifice her brother. She regrets her wish immediately, but that doesn’t change the fact she serves as the action’s primary catalyst. That’s rare, in the 1980s and today. Sarah alone directs her destiny by challenging the labyrinth’s infinite parade of decisions, even as she accepts that not all choices are simple, clean, or fair, and all of them have consequences that can’t be neatly resolved.

In that sense Sarah’s Hero’s Journey isn’t treated any differently by the script than if she were a boy — except for the fact her gender identity informs the film’s proceedings. The execution isn’t perfect: her emotional outbursts are treated as juvenile things to leave behind, and her faults (jealously, selfishness) are ones that tend to be assigned only to girls. But Labyrinth’s dramatic tension is centered entirely in a young woman’s mind as she navigates a tricky tightrope between fantasy and reality, dreams and goals, past and future, and discovers the kind of woman she wants to be. Compassionate, quick-witted, and iron-willed, willing to trust others and open to evolution of thought, while also prone to pre-judgment, naivety, and her fear of the unknown — all of which she overcomes. This makes Sarah not a weak token effort at inclusivity but a character who boasts a full, varied emotional life. She’s not there to service a guy’s development, to just be his victim or his love interest.

Which brings us to that pesky Goblin King. My adoration of Bowie aside, my interest in Jareth is in what he represents to Sarah — a deliberately disturbing mix of childishness and sexuality. Arrogant and assured, he first infantilizes Sarah by offering her gifts to win her submission. When charm fails, he tries intimidation, using his age, power, and authority to order her “back to her room” to “play with her toys.” When Sarah’s ingenuity continues to surpass his expectations, he flat-out presents himself as a distraction. Their dynamic becomes (perhaps always was) a choreographed seduction instead of the normal villain-hero relationship. Jareth’s threats read more like flirtations, especially in tandem with Bowie’s preening, charismatic performance and those, err… very tight pants. That blend makes him both a domineering father figure trying to restrict her autonomy and a potential lover.

Sex is mysterious, dark, and completely adult. Playing with lipstick in the bedroom mirror might be the first step of Sarah’s path toward romance (“I’d like it if you had a date,” her stepmother laments, “you should have dates at your age” — somehow I doubt she meant David Bowie), but Jareth personifies the seductive allure of the unknown, that elusive discovery of more. This is a movie with farting rocks and puppet dance parties, though, so the undertones remain subtle. But intentionally or not, Jareth’s both the embodiment of the patriarchy and the loss of Sarah’s innocence — a man dictating to a woman what he deems is the best thing for her, while also introducing an initiation into the sexual world as reward for her coming to heel. Those threats are very real, very relevant ones.

In a normal fairy tale, Sarah’s happy ending would be to marry him. Jareth fits the love interest archetype: rich, powerful, and regal, with control issues to boot. As tempting as his proposal can be from a certain perspective (I do swoon a bit), it’s a tangible power imbalance and unsettling in a way that borders on emotional abuse — of which Sarah is instinctively, if not implicitly, aware. She may have matured in her understanding of how the world works, but her white clothes signify she sees herself as the innocent in a sea of cruel lasciviousness. So despite the reciprocation and recognition of her desire, she knows she isn’t ready for that major step. That could be interpreted as a reinforcement of the damaging notion that a “good” woman must be chaste. But although Sarah rejects Jareth’s advances (and, impressively, his piercing male gaze; the camera never objectifies her), he still functions as the spark to her burgeoning sexual awakening. She’s curious and aware, but it has to happen on her terms at the right time.

For all his, “Fear me, love me, do as I say, and I will be your slave,” declarations (cool story, bro, but she’s sixteen), in the end Jareth’s just a privileged, lonely, petty man. He doesn’t get the happy ending he wants. Sad Goblin King is sad.

Of the things Sarah discovers along her labyrinth adventure, above all she learns the power of choice. She chooses between bravely confronting the uncomfortable uncertainties of real life or surrendering her free will to a fantasy. She chooses who she wants to be — a healthy balance somewhere between no longer a child but not yet a grown woman. One of my favorite things about Labyrinth’s message is Sarah doesn’t entirely dismiss her material possessions, but rather finds space for creativity and wonder alongside everything else. She can face her nebulous future with clarity, solid in her convictions and rooted in the understanding of her personhood.

Labyrinth teaches us that women have power. We can say what we want no matter the overwhelming pressures otherwise. We can shape a path for our lives and choose what’s right for us at the right time. We alone determine our self-worth; our stories matter.

We just have to remember the words.

Kelcie Mattson is a multimedia editor by morning, aspiring critic by afternoon, and tea aficionado 24/7. She’s been a fangirl since birth, thanks to reruns of Star Trek and Buffy. In her spare time she does the blogging thing on feminism, genre films, minority representation, comics, and all things cinephile-y at her website. You can follow her on Twitter at @kelciemattson, where she’s usually overanalyzing HGTV’s camerawork and sharing too many cat pictures.

Bitch Flicks’ Weekly Picks

Check out what we’ve been reading this week – and let us know what you’ve been reading/writing in the comments!

What to Watch During TCM’s Trailblazing Women by Marya E. Gates at Rotten Tomatoes

Prompted by ACLU, EEOC Begins Investigation into Gender Discrimination in Hollywood by Melissa Silverstein at Women and Hollywood

Muted Explores What Happens When Black Girls Go Missing by Anita Little at Ms. blog

Al Jazeera Launches New Documentary Series Showcasing African Women Making Change Via Local Projects by Tambay A. Obenson at Shadow and Act

“How to Get Away With Murder” Brings an HIV-Positive Character to Primetime by s.e. smith at Bitch Media

Priyanka Chopra Talks Bollywood, Diversity on TV, and What’s Ahead This Season on Quantico by Sona Charaipotra at Vulture

A Brief History of The Queen of Sci-Fi Cinema, Sigourney Weaver by Maddy Myers at The Mary Sue

How ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ Is Embracing Female Empowerment Like Never Before by Lesley Goldberg at The Hollywood Reporter

What have you been reading/writing this week? Tell us in the comments!

Yas Queen!: In Praise of Female Friendship and Sex Positivity on ‘Broad City’

As emerging adults, Abbi and Ilana are free to explore their sexuality as they choose. Choosing to be sexually active means the women have the possibilities of exploring love and sex, casual or within a relationship, in a way that best serves them as 20-something single women. Although Abbi and Ilana each explore their sexuality differently, the women share a common mentality- that they will embrace the many sexual adventures they embark on and support and empower each other every step of the way.

This guest post by Alexandra Shinert appears as part of our theme week on Sex Positivity.

In the pilot of Comedy Central’s hit show Broad City, we meet Abbi Abrams (Abbi Jacobson) and Ilana Wexler (Ilana Glazer), two women whose idea of friendship has no bounds. Throughout the series, which is executively produced by Amy Poehler, Abbi and Ilana’s friendship not only takes precedent in their lives but it is also at the core of the show, intentionally placed at the center by the female comedy creators, Abbi Jacobson and Ilana Glazer. As a show that focuses on the lives of two 20-something (mostly) heterosexual, single best friends who are navigating life in New York City, it’s their friendship that shines brightest and makes a significant impact on the landscape when it comes to female-centric media.

At the Paley Center for Media’s New York Comedy Festival panel featuring Broad City, Glazer spoke about the central focus of the show saying, “It’s just a romance between two friends…platonic, for now.” Acknowledging the romance between the two women, Poehler also emphasized that the relationship viewers should care most about is Abbi and Ilana’s as the show is really “a love story” between these two friends. We get the sense that the women truly care for each other and this love can be best expressed in their own words in a scene from the pilot episode (“What a Wonderful World”).

Ilana tells Abbi, “Dude, I would follow you into hell, brother!” A sentiment Abbi would replicate without hesitation by telling her friend, “I would take you on my shoulders, like I’d strap you up and I’d be like, ‘let’s go through hell.’” This declaration that illustrates the women’s true devotion for each other is also extremely visible throughout every episode of the series’ two seasons. Whether Abbi is saving Ilana’s life after a serious allergic reaction to shellfish or the women make time to catch up with each other in the middle of sex via FaceTime, at the core of Broad City’s slap-stick comedy are two women who would do anything for each another.

Central to the nature of friendship, and a key characteristic of female friendship is the role of conversation. For female friends to engage in activities that allow them to talk, open up, and discuss every aspect of their lives, women not only bond but in the process create closeness through self-disclosing of personal information. In the case of Abbi and Ilana, the women comfortably discuss any and all topics (from pooping to pegging); due to this level of self-disclosure, they’ve created a bond that is incredibly close. Abbi, in particular, vocalizes the kind of self-disclosure and closeness they’ve established by emphasizing to Ilana in the season one finale, “You text me every time you take a dump, I know about the pimple on your nipple, and I’m, like, the holder of your social security card.” This dialogue reinforces the important role each of the women play in each other’s lives and further establishes the kind of friendship Broad City portrays. It is within Abbi and Ilana’s friendship that sex positivity truly exists, and due to the nature of closeness between the women and the levels of self-disclosure they’ve established, discussing sex happens most visibly through positivity and empowerment on Broad City.

As 20-something women who are both comfortably content with this particular moment in their lives, the women have no sense of urgency when it comes to finding a partner to marry or deciding when or if they want to have children. These cultural attitudes not only connect to larger generational traits of Millennials but are also characteristic to the stage of their lives the women are experiencing: Emerging Adulthood. As emerging adults, Abbi and Ilana are free to explore their sexuality as they choose. Choosing to be sexually active means the women have the possibilities of exploring love and sex, casual or within a relationship, in a way that best serves them as 20-something single women. Although Abbi and Ilana each explore their sexuality differently, the women share a common mentality- that they will embrace the many sexual adventures they embark on and support and empower each other every step of the way.

In the season 1 finale (“The Last Supper”), the women celebrate Abbi’s 26^th birthday by going out to a fancy restaurant for dinner. While dining, the women discuss the sexual adventures Abbi has been enjoying as a way to celebrate her birthday. Ilana is truly overjoyed to learn that Abbi had “slightly above average sex” “twice in one week.” However, after Abbi pees out a condom, she shares a realization with her best friend that she likely had unprotected sex with one of her partners. Ilana’s reaction to Abbi’s dilemma illustrates both the kind of friendship the women share and the importance of having safe sex. “Not only are we talking STDs here, I can’t even imagine how many dudes would love to lock you down with an unexpected pregnancy! I mean, your body is a temple. You’ve got to respect it.” To respect one’s body means taking on the responsibilities that come with the act and to practice safe sex extends into a larger dialogue about sex positivity on Broad City. Abbi and Ilana will continue to celebrate and praise any and all sexual experiences the women enjoy, but this scene clearly emphasizes the importance of being safe above all. Moreover, Ilana’s honesty and openness to tell Abbi how she really feels continues to normalize the kind of friendship the women share and the significant role conversation places within their relationship.

From a simple conversation about sex to experiencing the act and pausing to seek out a friend for advice, Broad City’s depiction of sex positivity exists comfortably within Abbi and Ilana’s friendship. It is extremely present within “Knockoffs” (season 2, episode 4), an episode where Abbi finally gets to date her long-time crush and next-door neighbor, Jeremy (Stephen Schneider). Despite experiencing sex with Jeremy, Abbi is thrown for a loop when he asks her to penetrate him with a strap-on in an act of pegging. Confused by this suggestion, she excuses herself into the bathroom to call Ilana. Abbi seeks out Ilana’s advice, by explaining her situation to her friend: “So we were doing it and I was like ‘we should switch positions,’ and then he throws me a strap-on.” It is Ilana’s guidance and support in this moment of confusion that helps Abbi regroup and eventually partake in this sexual act. The way the women discuss sex and talk through Abbi’s dilemma continues to further establish how sex positivity exists on Broad City within the women’s friendship.

When Ilana gets the call from Abbi, she is overjoyed for her friend, calling the situation “a dream come true” and a “once in a lifetime” experience. She even pauses the conversation to twerk against a wall to express her enthusiasm. Abbi’s lack of confidence as she deals with how to execute the act is fully supported by a knowledgeable Ilana, whose reassurance is exactly what she needs. The women’s conversation continues to demonstrate the strength of their friendship, which connects to the depiction of sex positivity displayed within this scene.

This kind of celebratory praise of sex positivity can be extended to the conversation the women have post-pegging while attending Ilana’s grandmother’s shiva. When Abbi admits to pegging Jeremy, Ilana exclaims, “This is the happiest day of my life,” causing a scene at the somewhat somber event. Ilana praises Abbi for choosing to peg by calling her “a pegga” and “peggasus,” beyond thrilled that she would get to experience that sexual act. Ilana’s reaction is both humorous and extremely heartfelt, as she’s genuinely thrilled for her best friend. What is most significant about this scene is the way Abbi is praised for choosing to have sex, as Ilana never shames her or makes her feel weird about her decision to peg Jeremy. This further exemplifies the portrayal of sex positivity on Broad City that, I’d argue, can also be extended into a larger narrative about the way Abbi and Ilana celebrate each other in every aspect of their lives.

Broad City’s portrayal of sex positivity connects to constructs of sexuality and identity that must also be considered to truly understand the impact of these depictions. For instance, the pegging scene in “Knockoffs” illustrates that Abbi is open to the idea of engaging in an act that challenges heteronormative constructs/roles. In doing so, Broad City exemplifies the fluidity of sexuality. This is also visible through the depiction of Ilana, someone uninterested in labels or monogamy, comfortably content with having a stable “sex friend,” Lincoln (Hannibal Buress) and interested in sex for the sake of her own pleasure. This portrait of sexual fluidity and sex positivity on Broad City is emphasized best and most notably in the episode “Coat Check” (season 2, episode 9), where Ilana engages in sex with a woman, Adele (Alia Shawkat). Adele, who bares a striking resemblance to Ilana, helps her realize her sexual preferences and orientation.

In the middle of her same-sex encounter with Adele, Ilana stops her after realizing she may be too similar to her in appearance (not because she’s a woman, but instead because they’re nearly identical) for this relationship to continue. This instead results in a declaration of Ilana making sense of her own sexuality, as she openly tells Adele, “I have sex with people different from me, you know? Different colors, different shapes, different sizes. People who are hotter, uglier. More smart, not more smart. Innies, outies. I don’t know, a Catholic person.”

For Ilana, someone so eager to discuss and explore her sexuality, this scene emphasizes liberation. She feels comfortable with her choices and owns them, giving us a glimpse of sex positivity rooted in knowledge. Jenny Kutner discussed this scene as she saw the significance of Ilana’s declaration with respect to labels. She wrote, “Ilana’s same-sex encounter gives us the closest thing to a ‘definition’ for the character’s purposely ambiguous sexuality we’re likely ever to get, and it’s still not entirely clear.” By highlighting the significance of this scene she argues, “Broad City’s giving us what is real, and what we often experience as real people who exist in the world.” Furthermore, Ilana is someone who is liberated by this identity and is proud to experience her sexuality in any way she chooses, further demonstrating Broad City’s take on sex positivity.

Ilana comfortably discusses with Abbi the prospects of having a relationship with Adele, even if she considers it “mostly sexual.” Ilana feels the need to reassure Abbi that their friendship will continue to take precedent, by telling her “she [Adele]’s not replacing you.” There is never any worry for the women on Broad City that a relationship, a job, or a responsibility will come between the friends and the bond they share. As Abbi learns about Adele, we see someone who just wants to support her best friend in any way she can. This means being able to support Ilana the way she supports her.

As illustrated, sex positivity on Broad City directly connects to the friendship Abbi and Ilana share. Regardless of the kind of situation the women find themselves in, they would truly do anything for each other. Above all, Jacobson and Glazer’s series is about celebrating women, specifically 20-somethings as they experience this moment in their lives. This celebratory praise of women begins with Abbi and Ilana’s friendship, where two women’s love and support for each other extends into every aspect of their lives. If Broad City is a love story between Abbi and Ilana, it is one that is adding an incredibly powerful portrayal and narrative about women to the landscape. For women to be supporting women and empowering one another above all, Broad City gives us not only an amazing depiction of sex positivity but one of the greatest portraits of female empowerment that is beyond worthy of praise.

References

Fehr (1996). Friendship Processes. Thousand Oaks, CA: SAGE Publications Inc.

Johnson (1996). “Friendships Among Women, Closeness in Dialogue.” In J. T. Wood, Gendered Relationships (pp. 79-94). Mountain View, CA: Mayfield.

Alexandra Shinert holds her M.A. in Media, Culture and Communication from NYU. She has spent time studying media portrayals and narratives, most notably on Girls and Broad City. She is genuinely interested in understanding 20-somethings and Millennials and appreciates a great TV reaction gif. You can connect with her on Twitter @AShinert

Being the Sun – Women and Power in ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ Season 11

Is this Rhimes saying to all us die-hard female ‘Grey’s fans that we as women need to take the focus off of other people and put it back on ourselves in order to be the best version of, well, us? It certainly seems that way.

This is a guest post by Alize Emme.

SPOILER ALERT: Do not read unless you have watched all current episodes of Grey’s Anatomy Season 11.

Grey’s Anatomy has long been a show about love stories. The show’s tagline when it premiered in March of 2005 was “Operations. Relations. Complications.” Relationships have always been part of the game. Showrunner and producer Shonda Rhimes has created characters who season after season will do just about anything in the name of love – specifically, the female characters. Type “Craziest Things Grey’s Anatomy Characters Have Done For Love” into Google and the Izzie Stevens entry page of Wikipedia is the first result.

But this season, Season 11, has turned that theme on its head. The female characters are no longer doing things just for love; they’re doing things for themselves.

Rhimes deserves a lot of credit for creating a show about women who embrace their sexuality. And while critics over the years have questioned the idea that a medical drama could also be a romantic soap, Rhimes has shown that women can be sexually active AND successful, which is why focusing on just women getting back to their true selves feels like a natural and important transition for this show.

So far, this season has been about women standing in their power and kicking ass. Meredith Grey (Ellen Pompeo), who is definitely not the least interesting Grey’s character, is especially kicking in the ass department.

At the end of season 10, which saw the departure of beloved character and Meredith BFF, Cristina Yang (Sandra Oh), the two twisted sisters dance it out one last time – but not before Cristina offers some crucial parting words. In her Cristina way, she tells Meredith that Derek Shepard (Patrick Dempsey), aka McDreamy, aka Meredith’s husband, is “very dreamy. But he is not the sun. You are.” After ten years together and a relationship Rhimes says is based on her own Cristina, this is what her last words are. Essentially, stop revolving your life around Derek, start revolving around yourself… Or, you know, something more eloquent and science-y, but nevertheless make yourself a priority!

If ever there were a theme that needed to be explored in 42 minutes not including commercials on network television, this would be it!

During the multi-episode absence of Derek McDreamy Shepard, Meredith has made herself a priority and is quite literally kicking ass and taking names. And those names? They’re the names of all the people Meredith has consecutively saved since Derek has been gone. Yes, while her husband is away on a fancy project for POTUS, Meredith is 90 names deep in the lifesaving department. She literally hasn’t lost a patient since Nov. 14 of last year (Grey’s is real time, real world so, a while). And when Derek does return? Streak over. Patient gone.

This idea, this storyline that Meredith is at the top of her game when all the other factors in her life are taken out of the equation is so impactful. Her husband is across the country doing a job he thinks is more important than hers; her kids are being doted on by a sister-in-law and a surprise half-sister. All Meredith has to do is focus on Meredith and that means focusing on surgery. Is this Rhimes saying to all us die-hard female Grey’s fans that we as women need to take the focus off of other people and put it back on ourselves in order to be the best version of, well, us? It certainly seems that way.

Meredith isn’t the only female character who’s seen a general life resurgence this season. Callie Torres (Sara Ramirez) makes the completely gut-wrenching, completely unforeseen, and completely sense-making decision to end her relationship with Arizona Robbins (Jessica Capshaw) because she has lost herself in the marriage. Callie used to dance around in her underwear; she used to be a badass bone surgeon. Despite still loving Arizona, Callie realizes being away from Arizona was the first time she truly started to find herself again. Callie makes the decision to stop trying to fix her marriage. A bold and heart-breaking choice, but Callie is choosing Callie and that’s what is most important.

Callie and Arizona’s heartbreaking break up. — Callie and Arizona’s heartbreaking breakup.

Amelia Shepard (Caterina Scorsone), who is not only Derek’s sister but also his replacement as head of neurosurgery, has also proven she can stand on her own two feet. After deciding she is the only brain surgeon who can remove Nicole Herman’s (Geena Davis) life-threatening tumor, she literally has to solidify herself not as Derek’s baby sister, not as a recovering addict, but as a badass brain surgeon. During a critical moment of self-doubt, when Amelia asks Richard Webber (James Pickens Jr.), her unofficial sober companion, to bring Derek back from Washington to save her in the middle of surgery, Richard gives Amelia a similar speech Cristina gave to Meredith. “Derek isn’t here,” he tells her. “YOU’RE here.” In other words, Derek can’t save her; Derek isn’t “the sun.” Amelia needs to step out of Derek’s shadow and own her power. She not only rocks her surgery, but saves Herman’s life. She also earns herself a spot in the Derek Is No Longer The Sun Club.

All other female characters are doing their part to be awesome this season, too. Stephanie Edwards (Jerrika Hinton) is off being a superhero with Amelia. Newcomer Herman saves unborn babies and beats a terminal brain tumor. Arizona is Herman’s living legacy, saving babies left and right with magical knowledge and was basically Herman’s life saving catalyst. Jo Wilson (Camilla Luddington) is the one who realized Meredith’s streak of bad ass-ness. April Kepner (Sarah Drew) is taking a tragedy and using it to better herself. And Miranda Bailey (Chandra Wilson) is using her voice to stand up for those who aren’t always heard. Bailey is also married to Ben, so let’s be real, Bailey wins by just waking up in the morning.

Let’s take a moment here to acknowledge Maggie Pierce (Kelly McCreary). I definitely had the thought earlier this season: Does Meredith Grey really need another sister? But Maggie is the sister Meredith needs and deserves. She’s the sister everyone needs and deserves. She fills a Cristina void, a Derek void and, most importantly, she’s just really good. She’s a good cardiothoracic surgeon, she’s a good sister, she’s a good friend. And she’s normal! Like, aside from not being able to form constructive sentences around attractive men, she is basically the most normal and balanced character Grey’s Anatomy has ever seen. So, yay for Maggie who apparently has been around in theory since Season 4.

Maggie Pierce just being her likeable self.

The male characters this season, while always interesting, have definitely taken a step back story-wise to make room for these women to really shine. Seasoned Grey’s fans will remember the days when the male characters were much more of a force to be reckoned with, adding a sexual undertone to all hospital activities. And as much as I, and every other viewer, loved Mark McSteamy Sloan, he was basically a walking sex education class.

Really this season has been about self-reflection, loss, and healing for the male characters. Richard is coming to terms with discovering a daughter he didn’t know he had. Alex Karev (Justin Chambers) is navigating being Meredith’s “person” while realizing he’s in it for the long haul with Jo. Jackson Avery (Jesse Williams) is coping with the loss of his unborn child. Owen Hunt (Kevin McKidd) is dealing with the loss of Cristina. And Derek is busy crossing lines with a woman who is not his wife.

While we know now that Derek did in fact kiss his subordinate, we also know that Meredith has handled Derek’s suspected infidelity with serene stability. The moment that really solidified Meredith’s coming into her own? During last week’s episode (1117) when Derek came back from Washington D.C. refusing to reveal his assignations, he told Meredith he cannot live without her. To which Meredith says she can live without him. Derek is no longer the sun in this moment. Meredith has found who she is without her husband. Of course, Meredith then says she doesn’t want to live without Derek, but still, Meredith is now revolving around Meredith and Derek is just some passing comet, pretty to look at but not a crucial heavenly body in this planetary system.

“You guys are a freaking romance novel,” Callie says to Meredith about her relationship with Derek. Everyone is pulling for these two. But what happens next is anyone’s guess. Meredith can survive without Derek. So Derek needs to majorly step up.

MerDer, the Living Romance Novel – kidding.

Every once in a while I’ll catch a bit of fan-generated Grey’s Anatomy reviews online. And if you are one of the surprising number of confused people who have no idea why the end title card for episode 1112 was a freeze frame image of Meredith jumping on a bed in her underwear — well, I’m going to tell you!

Season 11 has been all about Meredith getting back to who she really is. Instead of going to D.C. to work on her marriage, she checks into a crappy airport motel and works on herself. She watches movies, raids the mini bar, and, yes, strips down to her skivvies and jumps like a kid on the bed.

That whimsical image (set to the fantastic song “Priory” by The Weekend), is the message of this entire season and something we as women, and everyone, should be doing:

Get back to yourself, put yourself first, love yourself first.

A powerful message from Shonda Rhimes and the Grey’s writers, indeed!

Alize Emme is a writer and filmmaker living in Los Angeles. She holds a B.A. in Film & Television from NYU and tweets at @alizeemme.

The Feminism of ‘Red Eye’

TRIGGER WARNING for domestic abuse and sexual assault.

“In the game of patriarchy,” says media critic Anita Sarkeesian, “women are not the opposing team. They are the ball.” This quote not only rings all too true with regard to the real world, but also to the world of Wes Craven’s 2005 thriller Red Eye. In the film, Jackson Rippner (Cillian Murphy) is the face of the newest wave of patriarchy – a young man working to establish his power and masculinity to prove his worth and capability to the older generation of patriarchy. He and his terrorist organizations attempt to “send [their] big, brash message” by using phallic missiles and knives against the older generation, represented by members of the US government and the father of the heroine, Lisa Reisert (Rachel McAdams). Lisa is the ball, and is needed by Rippner and his team to score, in this case by using her in an assassination plot against US Deputy of Homeland Security Charles Keefe (Jack Scalia) and his family. In order to persuade Lisa to stay a subservient ball instead of a human being, Rippner informs her that they will kill her father, Joe (Brian Cox), if she does not do as she is told. Lisa’s loyalties to three different forms of patriarchy are tested – that to her father, Joe; her country/government; and her new (metaphorical) romantic partner Rippner. Lisa reveals herself to not be a ball, but instead a complex human being who refuses to be controlled, no matter how gently or roughly, by any of them. With a bit of help from other female characters, Lisa fights against Rippner, and saves Joe and Charles Keefe.

Rippner and Lisa toasting to Lisa’s grandmother Henrietta.

While on the surface the film promotes general female empowerment, it gets into the specifics of the expectations of gender and how damaging they can be to all involved. Lisa and Rippner’s relationship metaphorically addresses issues such as date rape, abusive relationships, and domestic violence. In the beginning of the film, Rippner is a seemingly nice guy who asks Lisa to get a drink with him while they wait for their delayed flight. Lisa politely declines, but later chooses to join Rippner at the bar. She changes her mind because she decides not to let the trauma of being raped two years prior control her and influence her interactions with men anymore. She and Rippner share mutual attraction, and though she is hesitant at first, she warms up to him. They share intimate conversation about their families, and toast to her recently passed grandmother (who was a total badass), from whose funeral she is returning. Later in the evening, when she has become more comfortable with him and is feeling a bit tipsy, Rippner reveals his ulterior motive, severely betraying her trust, and terrifying and hurting her. He insists that if she just keeps quiet and does what he says, that it will all be over soon. The film is clear that the blame for the date rape is entirely Rippner’s. Did Lisa drink a bit? Yes. Did she wear a skirt, heels, and V-neck top? Yes. Did she approach him at the bar? Yes. And none of that matters, none of that is bad, and the blame for the attack rests with Rippner because he made the choice to attack her.

Farther into the film, and when Rippner and Lisa have spent more time with each other, their interactions become textbook examples of an abusive relationship. According to the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence and the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network, his actions meet every indicator of psychological abuse, and also indicate financial abuse, physical abuse, verbal and emotional abuse, and partner sexual violence and rape. He switches back and forth between speaking pleasantly or even soothingly, and being forceful and threatening. He attempts to make her feel stupid by putting down her gender, saying that her “female driven” emotions are inferior to his “male driven, fact-based logic.” He financially restricts and abuses her by taking her credit card and locking up her purse. He isolates her from others, controlling with whom she speaks and how, and controlling when and where she goes – even telling her when she can and can’t use the restroom. When she tries to reach out for help to the stewardess or another female passenger, he interferes. At one point he chokes her to assert his control, stopping just short of her passing out. When he suspects that she had been raped before, he gets “jealous” (Craven’s own word to describe the look on the character’s fae) that another man had her, and angry that she kept this a secret from him. After a physical confrontation in the bathroom, he responds, “Thanks for the quickie,” trivializing his brutal assault of her.

It is implied that if Rippner does not succeed in his mission, his terrorist organization will kill him (something that Wes Craven confirms in the commentary). Rippner’s fear of physical death can be compared to a fear of social death for not conforming to traditional forms of masculinity – such as keeping a female romantic partner subservient. It is this fear that keeps Rippner from giving up his mission when he is tempted to do so. He clearly is attracted to Lisa, and even cares about her, but in a very twisted way. After he knocks her unconscious, he gently rests her head on a pillow and strokes her hair. When she confesses to him that she was raped before, he responds – as Craven says “like a friend,” – that it was “beyond her control.” However, Lisa is sick of being controlled by him regardless of the occasions when he seems kind. At the end of the plane ride, she silences him (albeit temporarily) by stabbing his voice box with a stolen pen, hindering his ability to call and order his associate to murder her father. When Rippner chases her to her father’s house, Rippner attacks Joe but leaves him alive so that he can “watch” what Rippner is “going to do to [Lisa],” further attempting to prove his dominance not just over Lisa but over other patriarchal figures. Lisa fights Rippner on her own until the very end, when Joe successfully incapacitates Rippner by shooting him in the chest – near his heart. However, it is not Joe’s shot that ends the climactic struggle, but Lisa’s reaction to Rippner’s defeat. She and Rippner share one last moment after he is shot, in which she could have acted out in anger or caring, but instead just turns and walks away – thereby walking away from the game of patriarchy altogether.

Cynthia and Lisa at the end of the film.

Lisa fought off, saved, and was supported by powerful men. However, she was also aided by the little girl who trips Rippner when he is in pursuit of Lisa, and emotionally supported by the women she knows and meets during the film, such as one of the stewardesses calling Rippner “trash” to his face. After his rescue, Charles Keefe thanks Lisa and her coworker and friend Cynthia (Jayma Mays) for saving his own life and that of his wife and children. Though Rippner treated Lisa as the ball in the game of patriarchy, it is not a game that she nor the other female characters are willing to play or support. The film ends with Lisa and Cynthia sticking up for each other in the face of irate hotel customers, and then going off to have a drink together in sisterly fashion, making a beautiful feminist ending to a well-written feminist film.

A Role of Her Own: A Celebration of Satyajit Ray’s ‘The Big City’

Arati is, in fact, a great screen heroine. She is elegant, giving, gritty and spirited. Committed to supporting others, she has a strong personal and public moral code. She cares for both her loved ones and her fellow female co-workers. She buys presents for every member of the family when she gets her first salary and, although he has hurt her, she does not hesitate to praise her failing husband when she is with others. At work, Arati is not frightened of asking her boss for a raise and she learns to bargain with her colleagues for extra commission pay. When Edith’s virtue is slighted at work (the boss believes Anglo-Indians to be inherently promiscuous), she speaks out against the injustice and makes an extraordinarily risky yet heroic move. It is important to note that Arati is not regressively presented as a maternal martyr but as a dynamic, engaged worker and citizen.

Written by Rachael Johnson.

For most lovers, and scholars of ‘World Cinema’, the great Indian director Satyajit Ray will be forever identified with the Apu Trilogy. Chronically the coming of age of a young Bengali boy in the early part of the last century, the critically-acclaimed Pather Panchali (1955), Aparajito (1956) and Apur Sansar (1959) still feature in highly regarded Greatest Films of All Time lists. While they remain prized, influential films, 2013 has given us the opportunity to look at other great works by Ray. Re-released by the British Film Institute to celebrate its 50^th anniversary, Mahanagar (The Big City) is one that particularly caught my eye. It proved a pretty special discovery.

Set in 1950s Kolkata, The Big City is an intimate, insightful examination of the role of women in post-Independence India. The heroine of the tale is Arati Mazumdar (Madhabi Mukherjee), a lovely, kind-hearted housewife who lives with her bank clerk husband, Subrata (Anil Chatterjee), and their small son Pintu. They share their modest, lower middle-class home with Subrata’s elderly parents and teenage sister. As he is finding it hard to make ends meet, it is decided that Arati should also help support the family. She procures a job as a door-to-door saleswoman. Initially fearful of stepping out into the city streets, Arati soon adapts to the world of work. Gaining confidence and customers, she displays a considerable talent for the business. She meets people outside her family for the first time and strikes up a friendship with a stylish Anglo-Indian colleague called Edith (Vicki Redwood) who introduces her to lipstick.

But all is not well at home. Horrified by the very idea of his daughter-in-law working, Subrata’s deeply conservative father, Priyagopal (Haren Chatterjee), cold-shoulders the couple. The retired school teacher is particularly ashamed of his son. He believes that he has failed as a husband and that a woman who works suffers great hardship. Interestingly, he feels no shame in asking his former pupils for financial help. Subrata embodies urban post-colonial India and comes across as a quite genial and relatively modern husband. There are nicely-observed scenes at the beginning of the film where he shows engaging support for his wife who is naturally nervous at entering the workforce for the first time. He defends their decision to his father. ‘Change comes because it’s necessary,’ he says. However, Subrata too becomes increasingly threatened by Arati’s new role. She is forced to mollify his masculinist sense of worth. ‘I’m still the same. Just a housewife,’ she says. But he still tells her to quit her job. It is a cruel demand as it shows that Subrata does not care about Arati’s personal happiness and sense of self-worth. It also demonstrates a lack of logic and imagination. The request is all the more discouraging because he is a customarily gentle, likeable man. The Big City is not a polemic and Ray does not express an openly judgmental attitude towards his male characters. The film does, however, indicate that their narrow-mindedness is irrational and self-defeating. The director shows, through the illustration of a potentially disastrous life-changing event, that such reactionary, patriarchal attitudes are dangerous to the survival of both men and women. Unchanging concepts of gender serve neither the family nor community. Ray is, therefore, interested, in both the consequences of women’s participation in the workforce for both the individual and her society.

Ray wonderfully shows what work and economic independence mean for Arati personally. His portrayal of her struggle and advancement is both tender and progressive. Ray’s heroine is both good at her job and fulfilled by her work. It energizes her. ‘I work all day, and yet I don’t feel tired,’ she tells Subrata. There are many beautifully-observed moments in the movie but one scene in particular captures Arati’s own feelings towards her emerging role and independence. When she receives her first pay packet at work, she goes into the bathroom and opens the envelope to examine the pristine notes. In front of the mirror, she holds them to her chest and then smells them. She is pensive, a little bemused, and simply, understandably, proud of her success. At home, she tells her husband, ‘If you saw me at work, you wouldn’t recognize me.’ She is, of course, deeply hurt when Subrata asks her to give up her job. Ray addresses social change in humorous ways too. In one amusing scene, a stunned Subrata, having tea in a café, watches Arati, in black shades, cross the busy street outside. She runs into the husband of a friend and accompanies him into the café. It is an entirely innocent meeting but Subrata listens to their conversation behind a newspaper. Arati has two selves for two worlds. At home, she hides the lipstick she wears in the big city. These tensions are handled with delicacy and wit. Thanks to the well-drawn characterization and Mukherjee’s fully-realized performance, Arati’s growth always strikes the viewer as believable. Her spark is actually evident from the very beginning of the story when she wakes Subrata up in the middle of night to tell him, ‘I’m going to work.’

Arati (Madhabi Mukherjee) and husband Subrata (Anil Chatterjee)

While it is a tale filmed in black and white, and rooted in particular time and place, The Big City has immeasurable universal appeal and contemporary significance. Although it is not without melodramatic elements, it tells a very human story with both wit and kindness. It has a progressive sensibility and great heart. A sensitive study of a woman’s personal awakening and growth, it also understands that the personal is deeply political. The Big City has a wonderful heroine and a memorable central performance. Mukherjee’s turn as the strong, gracious Arati is quite mesmerizing. Newly restored, it is, in addition, gorgeous to look at. Now part of the Criterion Collection, The Big City is not difficult to track down. It is a beautiful film and I cannot recommend it highly enough.

The Butler, the Billions, and ‘Bernard and Doris’s Broken Hearts

Movie poster for Bernard and Doris

This is a guest post by Margaret Howie.

But the question, again, is do you ever really want to ever be intimate? If you do, then it might as well be this person. It’s not about gender. It’s not about race, or age, or anything. The hurdle is intimacy. –Susan Sarandon (on Bernard and Doris, from the movie’s official site).

Money changes everything, as noted by deep thinkers from Karl Marx to Cyndi Lauper. The very rich are so interesting because they seem to occupy a different world from us, one where you don’t have to worry about picking up after yourself — you have to worry about the people you’ve hired to pick up after you. Bernard and Doris’ director, Bob Balaban, encountered the dramatic potential of wealth and domesticity when he appeared in 2001’s manor house drama Gosford Park. Balaban’s movie, produced by HBO in 2006, is based on the real life relationship between tobacco heiress Doris Duke (Susan Sarandon) and her gay Irish butler Bernard Lafferty (Ralph Fiennes). Balaban and screenwriter Hugh Costello used this scenario to examine two vulnerable people who crossed class and professional boundaries to make a messy, painful, and touching drama.

Duke controversially changed her will near the end of her life in 1993, leaving Lafferty in charge of her enormous estate. After her death he was accused of manipulation, and even murder. But while the script uses some of the facts of Duke and Lafferty’s time together to begin and end the story, it’s not concerned with trying to build a case for or against him. Instead of going the Law & Order route, it affixes a great big disclaimer in the opening credits in order to play with fictional interpretations.

The result is more than a chance to gawk at the excesses and indulgences of a wealthy woman and her lavish property, or speculate as to what exactly happened in Duke’s final days. Thanks in large part to the brilliant performances by Sarandon and Fiennes, it’s an examination of a peculiar combination of people in extraordinary circumstances who develop a deep bond.

Susan Sarandon as multimillionaire Doris Duke

From the priceless opening scene, where Doris spits out an over-chilled cantaloupe and instantly fires a hapless butler without bothering to make eye contact with him, her character’s leadership is established. The rich young socialite seen in the opening credit sequence has grown into an authoritative, frugal, beautifully appointed woman. The film is careful to show early on that there’s nothing simple about having this amount of money to manage. Doris makes her decisions very quickly and very definitively, and if she doesn’t spend much of her leisure time sober, that’s no one’s business but her own.

With her elaborate outfits, fluffy dogs (played by Sarandon’s own pets), and sturdy sexual appetite, Doris could easily be shown following in the snobbish steps of 48 carat ditzes like Goldie Hawn in Overboard or Claudette Colbert in It Happened One Night. She’s rich and attractive and probably in need of being taken down a peg or two. But the film chooses to revel in Duke’s powers. She’s shown as dominating the various spheres she occupies: business, artistic, political, celebrity. Even her spiritual quest is done with distinct flair: she moves her newly found Indian guru over to America. Doris’s wealth, control and personality are all wrapped up in the New Jersey mansion she hires meek butler Bernard Lafferty to look after.

Doris may be in the habit of shedding staff like so many overchilled cantaloupes, but Bernard proves himself to have an immense practical and empathic capacity. She’s a smart woman who understands the value of a servant who quickly pays off a nurse she’s recently punched out in a plastic surgery clinic.

Bernard is a nurturer, softly spoken and with an awestruck air whenever he’s around Doris. He soaks up every crumb of her attention and is shown trying on her earrings and scarves, lighting up with the reflected glamour. When one of her business managers pushes Doris to fire him, she incredulously points out that he does embroidery.

Bernard Lafferty (Ralph Fiennes) in an early scene in Bernard and Doris

Under her instruction, he begins to grow more colourful and flamboyant. Like the orchids she nurtures in an immense greenhouse, Bernard blooms with more feminine accessories, brightly coloured shirts, a twinkling diamond earring, longer hair. It’s a sharing of Doris’s personal style, and of her funds that purchase all this glitz. The film shows that all of her relationships are guided by money, and while at first she appears to be in charge of it, it still has the power to unsettle her. In the aftermath of a furious argument with her young lover Ben (Nick Rolfe), she confesses to Bernard that her first husband asked her on their wedding night how much his allowance would be. She lost her infant daughter and her father, the two people she seems to have found unconditional love from, and the rest of the world has offered her only the love that comes with an expense account.

But while Bernard and Doris are brought together by money, they find each other a balm for their loneliness. It’s an imperfect match, as rocky and erratic as any long-term serious relationship. He falls off the wagon and loots her wine cellar. She drives drunk with him in the passenger seat. He sets her against her other advisors and monopolises her healthcare. She derides him for being needy. Neither of them maintains graciousness, for all the wealth that saturates them. This is what’s so effective about the movie–demonstrating the state of love they reach when they do get on. When Doris breaks down over Nick’s betrayal and her only child’s death, Bernard offers her pure acceptance. When his drinking lands him back in rehab, she returns it. It’s this volleying of trust back and forth that the two actors’ brilliant performances make believable.

Doris: “I don’t get it. You don’t fuck me; you don’t steal from me. So what do you want from me?” Bernard: “I want to take care of you, Miss Duke.”

The movie has fun with traditional gender roles and domesticity. Every inch the lady, Doris is also the master of the house. She and Bernard love dressing up in beautiful things, not as mere fripperies but as the accessories of power that stuns grey-suited boardroom members. The climactic scene comes when Bernard, wearing one of her gorgeous ballgowns and jewelry, carries the infirm Doris down for a private birthday dinner. It’s a gleefully camp moment, but also a poignant one.

She knows that he’s achieved his dream of shared intimacy, but over a discussion of her funeral plans, she sharply reinstates her superiority, snapping at him, “I must really be crazy to believe a fucker like you.”

Scenes like this pose the question of how little can be known about a close relationship, even from the inside. At the end of the film, Bernard is still inside the house, now the master. Over his head hangs the question of what really passed between him and his former employer. The hothouse environment where Doris grows orchids provides an example of what could have happened, when extremes of wealth, personality, and needs are pushed together to flourish, and possibly rot. Bernard and Doris explores the ambiguities of intimacy between two imperfect people, where there is no happy ever after, but it’s nothing less than a love story to the end.

Margaret Howie is a London-based bookseller who doesn’t need a butler but wouldn’t mind a wine cellar.

Guest Writer Wednesday: ‘Oz the Great and Powerful’ Rekindles the Notion that Women Are Wicked

Oz the Great and Powerful (2013)

Guest post written by Natalie Wilson. Originally published at Ms. Magazine blog . Cross-posted with permission.

Dorothy Gale—the girl who went to Oz—has been called the first true feminist hero in American children’s literature. Indeed, she was condemned by many readers, including children’s librarians, for daring to have opinions and act on them.

My grandmother introduced me to the Oz books as a child, and I have always seen her as a real-life Dorothy of sorts. Born in 1908, she loved travel and speaking her mind and–gasp–she preferred to read and write poetry than do dishes and cook. As a young woman, she did not take like a duck to the water of motherhood, and indeed seemed not to have liked it at all. To this day, she is referred to by the wider family as “abandoning” her two sons in favor of books and travel, though in fact her only abandonment was that of the traditional domestic role.

My grandmother was, in some ways, the “anti-mother” or “wicked witch” detailed so brilliantly in Crafting the Witch: Gendering Magic in Medieval and Early Modern England. That book, written by California State University at San Marcos’ associate professor of literature and writing Heidi Breuer, explores how magical, positive female figures such as Morgan le Fey morphed into the Wicked Witches that now dominate depictions of magical, powerful women—including those in the current film Oz the Great and Powerful.

The new Oz film does not include the brave and self-reliant Dorothy, nor any other character that I would identify as having my grandmother’s feminist spirit. The film speaks neither to the many strong female characters that populated L. Frank Baum’s books nor to the feminist, progressive leanings of its author. Instead, it trades in the notion that women are indeed wicked—especially those women not “tamed” by a male love interest or father figure, as well as (horror of horrors!) those women who lack nurturing, motherly characteristics.

In the film, Oscar Diggs is the one who journeys to Oz, not Dorothy, and this provides the basis for a much more traditional, or should I say regressive, story. Rather than, as in the original Oz book, having a female save many men and prove the male leader to be an ineffectual fraud, this time around we have an oafish male functioning as the love interest for various characters, transforming from ineffectual Oscar to the great and powerful Wizard and leader of Oz.

At the outset of the film, Oscar is a circus con-man/magician, readily admitting he is not a good man. Though he is framed as an unscrupulous, womanizing cad, he is also depicted as truly sweet and likable underneath—a sort of prince disguised as a beast. When Annie (Michelle Williams) tells him she is going to marry another man, the audience is meant to feel for poor Oscar—because Annie is framed as his “real love.” But by the close of the movie they are happily reunited, not as Oscar and Annie but as Oz the Wizard and Glinda the Good Witch. (This ending, by the way, and the romance threaded throughout the film, breaks a sacred belief of Baum’s that romance should not be featured in children’s tales.)

Baum’s continued insistence, both in his real life and his writing, that females are strong, capable, courageous and intelligent—and that tolerance, understanding and courage should guide one along life’s journey—are scuttled in favor of a movie heavy on special effects and light on character development, let alone any feminist or progressive message.

In contrast, the Oz books are full of intelligent, enterprising, courageous and self-reliant females. There are benevolent female rulers, such as Ozma and Lurline, as well as both good and bad witches. As noted at Bitch Flicks,

Dorothy, Ozma and Glinda serve significant leadership positions in Oz. Princess Ozma is the true hereditary ruler of Oz—her position having been usurped by The Wizard. Glinda is by far the most powerful sorceress in Oz, and both Dorothy and Ozma often defer to her wisdom. Dorothy, of course, is the plucky orphan outsider who combines resourcefulness and bravery.

Illustration of Dorothy and Toto from
L. Frank Baum’s 1900 novel.

Indeed, the books would pass the Bechdel test with flying colors. Strong friendships between women, as well as women helping other women (and various and sundry other creatures, men included), run through the 14 original books. (Some current readings posit these relationships as more than friendship, as with the queer readings of the Dorothy/Ozma relationship, but that’s another story.) There are wicked women, but they are not wicked to the extent they are in the film iterations, the current one included, nor are the wicked/bad characters very powerful. In fact, the Wicked Witch of the first Oz book fears the Cowardly Lion and the dark, and is destroyed by an angry Dorothy with a bucket of water. Before dying she concedes, “I have been wicked in my day, but I never thought a little girl like you would be able to melt me and end my wicked deeds.” The Wicked Witch in Baum’s book did not have green skin or wear an imposing outfit; instead she is a rather funny-looking figure with one eye, three braids and a raincoat.

In Baum’s version of Oz, females were allowed to have power and show anger without being castigated—something rare in books from Baum’s era. Also rare were female protagonists in children’s books, which is why, according to one scholar, “The Wizard of Oz is now almost universally acknowledged to be the earliest truly feminist American children’s book, because of spunky and tenacious Dorothy.” Baum’s work even hinted at the instability of gender—as when Ozma is first introduced as a boy named Tip. Traditionally masculine in many respects after her turn to female, Ozma’s gender is thus represented as not only about physical characteristics or appearance, but as far more complicated. Quite postmodern and queer for a children’s book from the early 1900s!

In addition to these feminist characters and depictions of gender, the books also consistently celebrate tolerance and diversity and maintain what Alison Lurie calls an “anti-colonial attitude.” This is no coincidence; rather, as documented in the BBC’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz: The True Story, “When L. Frank Baum wrote the Wonderful Wizard of Oz book, his choice of heroine was heavily influenced by the battle for women’s rights.” He was married to Maud Gage, the daughter of Matilda Joslyn Gage, the pioneering feminist and co-founder of the National Woman Suffrage Association.

While some still question feminism’s influence on Baum (as here), and it is often wrongly claimed that he and his feminist mother-in-law did not get along (as in The Dreamer of Oz), Baum’s faith in feminism never wavered. He supported feminism both within his own home (Maud ran the finances and his mother-in-law stayed with them six months out of every year) and in his writings (not only in the Oz books but in his journalistic work). Moreover, Baum thought men who did not support feminist aspirations were “selfish, opinionated, conceited or unjust—and perhaps all four combined,” and he argued that, ”The tender husband, the considerate father, the loving brother, will be found invariably championing the cause of women.” (One wonders what he would make of director Sam Raimi and his decidedly un-feminist new depiction of Oz!)

Baum’s feminist biography aside, many aspects of the books stand on their own as fictional feminist tracts. For example, the second book of the series, The Marvelous Land of Oz, features a fictional suffrage movement led by Jinjur, the female general of an all-girl army (their key weapon is knitting needles). At one point, Jinjur offers the rallying cry, “Friends, fellow-citizens and girls … we are about to begin our great Revolt against the men of Oz!” As a New York Times‘ reviewer quipped, it is too bad this female army “didn’t storm Disney next.”

Symphony rehearses live performance of
1939 Wizard of Oz soundtrack.

In contrast to the consistently anti-feminist Disney, Baum’s books can be viewed as children’s stories with distinctly feminist and progressive messages. Given that they were akin to the Harry Potter books of their day in terms of popularity and sales, this is hugely significant. Today, however, the books’ undercurrents of feminism and progressive politics have been overshadowed by the less-feminist 1939 film, The Wizard of Oz, and the many subsequent de-politicized adaptations.

In Oz the Great and Powerful, perhaps the most anti-feminist adaptation, Dorothy—the plucky and powerful girl from Kansas—is supplanted by a series of Oscar’s romantic interests, and this focus does not shift after a mighty storm transplants us from Kansas to Oz. There, Oscar quickly meets Theodora (Mila Kunis), who tells him of the prophecy that he is destined be the leader of Oz. However, she warns him, “You only become king after you defeat the Wicked Witch.” Metaphorically, for men like Oscar to achieve greatness they need to destroy powerful women. And, significantly, in order to destroy the witch Oscar must not kill her but destroy her wand—in other words, destroy her (phallic) power, destroy what makes her “like a man.” (I imagine Baum turning over in his grave).

Oscar, like the audience, does not yet know who this Wicked Witch is—a mystery that the film’s publicists went to pains to protect before it was released. This mystery suggests any female could be the Wicked Witch or, more broadly, that all women are or have the potential to be wicked.

When Oscar first meets Theodora, the audience is encouraged to view her as kind, helpful and beautiful. She, like the women from Kansas, seems taken by his charms. In contrast, her sister Evanora refers to Oscar as a “a weak, selfish and egotistical fibber.” Evanora’s fury, as well as her witchy get-up, encourages the audience to think she is the Wicked Witch. When Theodora insists Oscar is the wizard, Evanora’s caustic response—“’The wizard, or so he says. He may be an imposter. Sent here to kill us”—furthers the suspicion.

Then, when Evanora says “Maybe it’s you I’ve underestimated. Have you finally joined her side, sister?” the audience is once again encouraged to question who the “her” is. Theodora protests, “I am on no one’s side. I simply want peace. He’s a good man,” suggesting she is not on the Wicked Witch’s side. But Evanora retorts, “’Deep down you are wicked!’

Theodora then throws a ball of fire across the room, prompting the audience to once again question who the real Wicked Witch is. The mystery continues when Oz, his monkey sidekick Finley and the China Girl (a porcelain doll) spy a witchy-looking figure in the dark forest. But the scary figure turns out to be Glinda, who is quickly identified as a “good witch” not only through the ensuing dialogue but via her blonde hair and white dress.

This delaying of the true identity of the Wicked Witch and the suggestion that even good women can be, or at least appear to be, wicked, goes along with the fear of female wickedness that shaped not only the Renaissance era and its infamous witch hunts but continues to be a key trope in our own times. Sadly, the new film reifies messages contained in so many stories of the witch–that females not tied to or interested in men/family are jealous, duplicitous, vengeful and must be destroyed (or domesticated). The good females in the film function as a mother/daughter pair, both of whom, by film’s end, are tied to Oz as their patriarch.

The film can also be read as yet another story about how men are destined to lead while women are destined to mother. This goes directly against the original author’s beliefs; as his grand-daughter notes, “He was a big supporter of women getting out into the marketplace and men connecting with the children and spending time at home.” In direct contrast, the film punishes female entrepreneurial spirit and pluck and never suggests that any of Oscar’s greatness comes from his desire to spend time at home. Instead, he is ultimately rewarded by becoming the “great and powerful” man the title refers to, and the female characters are either punished for refusing the maternal role (Evanora and Theodora) or rewarded for placing primacy on family (Glinda and the China Girl).

As wonderfully put in the New York Times review of the film, Oz the Great and Powerful “has such backward ideas about female characters that it makes the 1939 Wizard of Oz look like a suffragist classic.” While the 1939 film was decidedly less feminist than the book on which it was based, it nevertheless was far more feminist friendly than this current iteration.

That a book published in 1900 and a film that came out in 1939 are each more feminist than a 2013 film is troubling. The NPR review agrees, but then claims that what this indicates is “that chivalry (or perhaps feminism) of the sort that Judy Garland could count on is not only merely dead, it’s really most sincerely dead.” Simplistic reading of chivalry aside, the suggestion that feminism is dead has perhaps never been more wrong than it is now. Sure, we still have our wicked witches to face (I am talking to you, Ann Coulter), but we also have a plethora of Dorothys and Ozmas and Jinjuras—not to mention L. Frank Baums.

It is particularly disappointing that films aimed at children and families continue to be not only un-feminist but devoutly anti-feminist, and they do so by drawing on the stereotypical witch figure of centuries ago—used, as Breuer puts it, to “frighten women back into domestic roles.”

Alas, just as the 1939 film reflected the economic realities of its time, turning Baum’s story into a call for women to return to the home (as in, “There’s no place like home”), so too does this 2013 version speak to the current economic crisis. Times of economic downturn are predictably accompanied by sexist backlash—a sort of knee-jerk “Let’s blame it on the women that steal our jobs, refuse to do their duties (mothering, cleaning, etc.) and threaten the stability of family, of church, of the very nation.” Currently, this backlash is evident on many fronts–from the attacks against women’s reproductive freedoms, to the vitriol aimed at women who dare seek independence or even the right to report rape, to the hyperfocus on romance, sexuality and appearance as the only things that truly matter to women.

The message of the original book was that possibilities for a liberated world of tolerance and female equality was not merely a dream but a real place we could move to if we only had the courage (and the heart and the brain). The message of the 1939 film was that women can have some power, but home and family was still the best place for them (and liberation was merely a dream caused by a bad bump on the head). The message of Oz the Great and Powerful is that only men can save women and only men can save Oz; in other words, what we need to save us from falling off the economic cliff is not Dorothy, not Glinda, not the China Girl, but a gold-digging con man who is adept at smoke-and-mirrors politics but has about as much substance or real conviction as, well, many of our current world leaders. These frauds are apparently still better than any woman though—be she good, wicked, or made of porcelain.

Illustration of Dorothy and Toto by W.W. Denslow, from Wikimedia Commons

Image of 1939 film from Flickr user Jason Weinberger, under license from Creative Commons

Natalie Wilson, PhD is a literature and women’s studies scholar, blogger, and author. She teaches at Cal State San Marcos and specializes in areas of gender studies, feminism, feminist theory, girl studies, militarism, body studies, boy culture and masculinity, contemporary literature, and popular culture. She is author of the blogs Professor, what if …? and Seduced by Twilight. She is a proud feminist mom of two feminist kids (one daughter, one son) and is an admitted pop-culture junkie. Her favorite food is chocolate.